“So we all hope,” Leesha sighed, though she had her doubts. She handed back the baby and climbed back into the cart.

“We need to get to the Hollow immediately,” she told the others. She looked at Gared.

“Clear the road!” the giant Cutter bellowed, a lion’s roar, and folk fell over themselves to move out of his path as he stomped his garron toward them. Tents, blankets, and wards were snatched quickly away. Leesha regretted the need, but the cart could not go off-road, and her children needed her.

They galloped the horses when they finally cleared the press of refugees, thousands in number, but they were still well short of the Hollow by nightfall. It only took a mild look from Leesha to make Rojer take up his fiddle, and they rode on through the darkness with only Leesha’s light staff to guide them and his music to keep the corelings at bay.

Leesha could see the demons at the edge of the light, swaying in time to the music as they ambled slowly after Rojer, mesmerized.

“I’d rather they were attacking,” Wonda said. She had her great bow strung and a warded arrow nocked and ready.

“Ent natural,” Gared agreed.

They made it to Leesha’s cottage on the outskirts of the Hollow by midnight, and paused only long enough for Leesha to store the most precious of their cargo before they pressed on through the darkness to the village proper.

If things had seemed cramped before, they were many times worse now. The refugees from Lakton came better equipped, with tents and warding circles and covered wagons laden with supply, but they spilled over the edges of the forbidding on almost every side, weakening the greatward.

Leesha turned to Gared and Wonda. “Find the other Cutters and make a sweep of the forbidding. Any tent or carriage within ten feet of the greatward needs to be moved, or we could have corelings in the streets.” The two nodded and moved off.

She turned to Rojer. “Find Smitt and Jona. I want a council meeting tonight; I don’t care who’s in bed.”

Rojer nodded. “I don’t have to ask where you’ll be, I suppose.” He hopped from the cart and pulled up the hood of his warded cloak as she turned the cart for the hospit.

Jardir looked up as Abban limped into the throne room. “You seem almost spry today, khaffit.”

Abban bowed. “The spring air gives me strength, Shar’Dama Ka.”

Ashan snorted at Jardir’s side. Jayan and Asome kept their distance, having learned not to antagonize Abban in their father’s presence.

“What do you know of the place called Deliverer’s Hollow?” Jardir asked, ignoring them.

“You seek the Painted Man?” Abban asked.

Ashan lunged at Abban, taking him by the throat. “Where did you hear that name, khaffit?!” he demanded. “If you’ve been bribing the nie’dama for information again, I’ll—”

“Ashan, enough!” Jardir shouted as Abban gasped and struggled weakly. When the Damaji did not comply fast enough, Jardir did not ask again, kicking him hard in the side. Ashan was knocked away and hit the polished stone floor hard.

“You would strike me, your loyal Damaji, over a pig-eating khaffit?” Ashan asked, incredulous, when he had found his breath again.

“I struck you for not attending my command,” Jardir corrected, and swept his gaze over the rest of those in the room. Aleverak and Maji, Jayan and Asome, Ashan, Hasik, even the door guards. Only Inevera, stretched out in her diaphanous robes on a bed of bright silk pillows beside his throne, escaped his gaze. “I tire of this game, so I say now for all to hear, I will kill the next person to strike someone in my presence when I have not given them leave to do so.”

Abban began to smirk, but Jardir whirled on him, glaring. “And you, khaffit,” he growled. “The next time you answer a question with a question, I will tear out your right eye and make you eat it.”

Abban paled as Jardir strode angrily to his throne, sitting down hard. “How did you learn of the one they call the Painted Man? The dama required intensive interrogation to pull his name from the chin Holy Men’s lips.”

Abban shook his head. “It’s all the chin talk about, Deliverer. I doubt the interrogations discovered anything a few crumbs of bread or words of kindness couldn’t have gathered freely on the street.”

Jardir scowled. “And the stories agree he is in the village called Deliverer’s Hollow?” Abban nodded. “What do you know of it?”

“Until a year ago, it was called Cutter’s Hollow,” Abban said, “a small village of men beholden to the duke of Angiers who felled trees for lumber and fuel. Wood is impractical to ship through the desert, so I had little business with them, though I do have one contact who might remain. A seller of fine paper.”

“What good is that?” Ashan demanded.

Abban shrugged. “I do not know that it is, Damaji.”

“And what have you heard of the place since its name changed?” Jardir demanded.

“That the Painted Man came to them last year when the village was rife with flux and the wards failing,” Abban said. “That he killed hundreds of alagai with his bare hands alone, and taught the villagers to fight alagai’sharak.”

“Impossible,” Jayan said. “The chin are too weak and cowardly to stand up in the night.”

“Perhaps not all,” Abban said. “Remember the Par’chin.”

Jardir glared at him. “No one remembers the Par’chin, khaffit,” he growled. “You would do well not to remember him, either.”

Abban nodded, bowing as low as his crutch would allow.

“I will see for myself,” Jardir decided, “and you will come with me.” Everyone looked at him in surprise. “Hasik, find Shanjat. Tell him to assemble the Spears of the Deliverer.” Jardir’s Maze unit had taken the name when they became his personal bodyguard. The Spears of the Deliverer were fifty of the finest dal’Sharum in Krasia, serving under kai’Sharum Shanjat.

Hasik bowed, leaving immediately.

“Are you certain this is wise, Deliverer?” Ashan asked. “It is not safe to separate yourself from your armies in enemy lands.”

“Nothing in life is safe for those who fight Sharak Ka,” Jardir said. He put a hand on Ashan’s shoulder. “But if you are concerned, you may come with me, my friend.”

Ashan bowed deeply.

“This is foolishness,” Aleverak growled. “A thousand weakling chin can overwhelm even the Spears of the Deliverer.”

Jayan snorted. “I doubt that very much, old man.”

Aleverak turned to Jardir, who nodded his permission. The ancient Damaji reached out to Jayan, and suddenly the boy was on his back.

“I’ll kill you for that, old man,” Jayan growled, rolling quickly to his feet.

“Try it, boy,” Aleverak dared, setting his feet in a sharusahk stance and beckoning with his one arm. Jayan snarled, but at the last moment, he glanced at his father.

Jardir smiled. “By all means, try and kill him.”

A vicious smile broke out on Jayan’s face, but a moment later he was back on the floor, Aleverak pulling on his arm to increase the slow pressure of his heel on Jayan’s windpipe.

“Enough,” Jardir said, and Aleverak immediately released the hold and stepped back. Jayan coughed and rubbed his throat as he rose.

“Even my own sons must respect the Damaji, Jayan,” Jardir warned. “You would be wise to hold your tongue in the future.”

He turned to Aleverak. “The Damaji will rule Everam’s Bounty in my absence, with you leading the council.”

Aleverak narrowed his eyes, as if deciding whether or not to continue his protest. Finally, he bowed deeply. “As the Shar’Dama Ka commands. Who will speak for the Kaji until Damaji Ashan returns?”

“My son, Dama Asukaji,” Ashan said, nodding to the young man. Asukaji was not yet eighteen, but he was old enough for the white robe, which meant he was old enough for the black turban, if he was strong enough to hold it.

Jardir nodded. “And if Jayan will be humble, he will serve as Sharum Ka.”